On First Reactions

You can't take back first reactions. Especially if you're like me and have a face as honest as a mirror.

I already knew I was pregnant, and so did Wes (the hormones do not lie, people!). But there was a strong resistance to seeing it on paper (read: on a stick). We had just made seven months of marriage, still trying to figure out how to merge our daily lives, still trying to understand a life of love and sacrifice, and the lines between introvert alone time, and being together forever. By no means is it a perfect marriage, but it's our marriage, and it's our story. And I didn't want to let go of the time when "our family" meant just the two of us: killing time wandering every aisle of the grocery store but walking out with just coffee creamer, being lazy on Saturday morning making omelettes and watering the plants and watching animal documentaries, having people over on a weeknight whim to play Settlers of Catan, drinking wine and eating stovetop popcorn. I fell in love with our small but meaningful life. Like a dream, it was a little weird, often nonsensical, at times frightening, but coated in bliss. I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to open my eyes. I didn't want to look at that stick.

Wes wanted to. He wanted to get the inevitable out of the way. "When you gonna find out, when your water breaks? When you think you're 'peeing yourself' and a baby falls out?" But he'd also ask me to take the test at incredibly inopportune times—before a family gathering, before church, before meeting up with friends. "I can't pee on a stick and look my family in the face 15 minutes later!" I know me. I can't take back first reactions. I can't fake the feelings.

A Monday holiday came, and I had no excuse. No one to see for another week, besides work. And I already had a pregnancy test on hand (thanks to bridal shower gag gifts). "Just get it done, babe," he'd urge. I whined with resistance as Wes drug me to the bathroom. His nonchalance to the matter might as well have been a heavy pat on the back, "Get on the field, slugger!"

Unnecessary descriptive paragraph: the test wasn't one of those pee on a stick deals. Nope, you pee in a cup and use a fancy dropper to dispense your goods into a little tester. But with no disposable receptacle in our home, the cleanest vessel was an empty jar of Better Than Bouillon, lined with a ziploc bag (classy way to pee, I know). I didn't want to see the results alone. We set up the test so the lid of the bouillon jar covered the results. I waited for him to finish showering--the longest 8 minutes of my life.

"This is it," we thought out loud, looking at the bouillon lid that separated us and our future, thinking of all the meals we made with that bouillon. Thinking of when "our family" was just the two of us. "This changes everything." This changes the way we make decisions. The way we operate in community. The amount of sleep we get, the places we choose to live, the way our resources are used. We're don't have control of the parts of ourselves that replicate into the next generation. We don't get to choose what this person will be like. We only get to choose a name. Oh the pressure.

Like ripping a bandaid, we interrupted our thoughts and lifted the lid—

You can't take back first reactions. I melted in Wes' arms, trembling, facing away from the results--which also meant that the results were all HE had to stare at. "You're going to be a dad," I whispered. "You're going to be a mom," he said back softly. And with that, I buried my face into his chest and wept. "I'm so.... scared,” I sobbed.

I’ve heard people say that in a near-death experience, their whole lives flashed before their eyes. And in this new life experience, our whole future flashed before my eyes—and it was blurry. I could see shapes and colors and movement, and I couldn’t grasp it because I couldn’t tell how far away or how close I was. I could see small vignettes of fears and anxieties and questions, and they blended together into more sobs and cries, “I’m so, so scared.” But in my mind, as distorted as my vision was, the sound of a newborn baby’s cry was sharp and endearing.. and I suddenly wanted to comfort it. “You’re going to be a mom,” Wes whispered.

A few Sundays before that moment, our pastor preached about the fear of the Lord. Inasmuch as God can be terrifying, the fear is a reference to awe and wonder, the kind of awe and wonder that makes one aware of His glory and simultaneously indebted to His greatness. With breath returning to my lungs after minutes of crying, this is the fear I had. Wonder of the unknown, concurrent with the awe and yearning to meet this unknown. If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, then the fear I feel about this pregnancy is the beginning of an uncharted journey towards finding and knowing and loving God in an absolutely brand new way.

Maybe my first reaction was to be scared, and I can’t take that back. But I’m making my second reaction courage, and my future reactions joy. Wes is going to be a dad. I’m going to be a mom. We’re having a little one. And we’re waking up from our dreams to find out that life is still a little weird (and gets even weirder), often nonsensical (and full of laughter), at times frightening (and never hopeless), but coated in bliss (and undoubtedly, baby poop).

There is new life within me, two fold; God had a dream, and placed it in a second beating heart inside of me.

Our first ultrasound

xo

On the mope boat

I regularly wake up with a song in my head, and it’s usually quite random- after all, if you’re ever around me long enough, you’ll find I have a song for just about every occasion. Making pasta sauce? Stir it up, little darlin. Got to the crumby bottom of your bag of chips? All these pieces, broken and scattered. Apparently I’m food driven.  Anyway, when a song creeps up in my head in the morning, prompted by food or not, I can’t shake it off (it's hard to dance with the devil on your back, so shake him off) (Florence before Taylor 4ever). Absolutely, I'll sing the lyrics mindlessly, without consideration of meaning.

One morning last Spring, I woke up muttering words from Tears for Fears: “And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad—the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.” Wes rolled his eyes, “OK MOPE BOAT, move it along.” And I chuckled.  Although he's learned to make light of my fluctuating moods, he truly cares, and tries with infinite best to summon a smile.  "ALL ABOARD THE MOPE BOAT," he'll jest.

But that morning, the entire bus ride to work, I realized the song was defining so much of the sadness and depression that was plaguing me those surrounding few weeks, months even. Didn’t know that was happening, did ya? Well that's ok.  Barely anyone knew.  We surrounded ourselves with people and good times, and I can be a pro at burying.  All I wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep or cry.  I'd take "bathroom breaks" that were really deep breaths to prevent myself from choking up at work.  Worst part of all this? I could never pin down the cause.  I was a mope boat in the middle of a still lake.  Nay.  A mope boat in the middle of a swamp.

"The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had." I asked myself if I've been so distraught because of dreams that died. After all, I stopped making art.  I mean, completely stopped creating anything meaningful.  Besides a handful of floral doodles in my bujo, I haven't made personal art in WAY over a year!  I tried the freelancer bit and made art for a living, but to be quite honest, it was grossly demanding.  I don't miss the business, but sometimes I miss the way art made me feel.  Maybe I'll go back to art one day, but today is not that day, and I am content with that.  SO content.

Speaking of contentment, what makes the mope-boat sadness worse is that I have every reason to be content! I have a wonderful husband, a cozy place to call home, a crazy/amazing church community, and a decent job.  We have food in the fridge, and friends around the dinner table.  We have a car that works, a garden that grows, and an AC to help us sleep.  I have reason to be content.  So I asked myself why I feel so much despair.  And I realized, I don't feel like my soul is dying because my dreams are dying, I feel like my soul is dying because I altogether just stopped dreaming.

--

And I think people have caught on.  With increasing frequency, I have heard kind questions, gentle encouragements, reminiscing the person I was.  Some from complete strangers who followed me on Instagram, some from the closeness of my husband, who tells me how much he misses watching me create.  They are reminding me of the power of my words, reminding me of the power of created things.  Not long ago, my pastor's wife took a moment to say those very things, accompanied by the verse, "Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks."

But what if I'm not speaking, because there's nothing there?

--

I've been doing some self-inventory.  Figuring out what I have, what I'm lacking, what I've used up quickly, what I'm not using at all.  I found out I have little time, a lot of anxiety, and not a lot of motivation.  I found I've wasted my energy, I've miscalculated rest, and I said yes more often than I said no.

I'm doing an autopsy on myself.  Figuring out what or who hurt me, how I hurt myself, what could have been done differently, how to forgive.  I'm figuring out why I stopped breathing, why my heart stopped beating, why my soul stopped daring, why my mind stopped imagining.  I'm pinpointing if there were warning signs, preventative measures, love notes of caution.  But I'm not bandaging this corpse, I'm not mummifying the things I've done wrong, I'm not taking things apart only to commemorate the emotional breakdowns.

I'm asking myself what the resurrected life looks like.

And I don't mean I'll start lettering again, I don't mean I'll be a beat poet, I don't mean I'll open up the books of dreams I once had--owning a coffee shop, running a community center, becoming a photographer.
I'm talking about the resurrected life that recognizes what things had to die, what things must be evicted and restricted, what things must be forgiven and let go.
I'm talking about the resurrected life that, even if I wake up in sadness, I tell myself it is unnatural for me to feel joy, but I'll choose joy anyway.  The kind of life that, when I feel the building of anger, is the first to apologize and forgive--even if I am in pain, and even if the other person doesn't apologize or forgive me back.  The kind of life that, when I begin to panic because resources are low and needs are high, slams on the brakes and says prayers of gratitude, because my life is full, and I am alive, and I can trust in divine provision.  I'm talking about the resurrected life that creates and writes not for acknowledgment, but for catharsis.  I'm talking about the resurrected life that knows the power of constant forgiveness and undeserved grace.

I'm talking about the resurrected life that recognizes that the worst thing was not the last thing.

That I can begin again, and begin again, and begin again.
That a dream can die; nevertheless, I can dream again.



xo





Currently Reading: Present Over Perfect by Shauna Niequist
Currently Listening: "Blessings" by Chance the Rapper, Coloring Book
Currently Watching: Okja

On the Best of Love and the Worst of Fights

Marriage is a stage for two people to act out their deepest dysfunctions.

Or something to that degree.  That is something that Wes and I were told in our pre-marital counseling, and I can't disagree with that. Even in this state of engagement, I am so closely confronted with the flaws I've spent a good deal of my youth trying to overcome, ignore, or cover up.  I've never been more aware of my selfishness, my pride, my anger, my anxiety, my fears.  I can't hide that in a relationship.  And foolishly, to try to hide anything only makes it so much more destructive when the truth surfaces.

This has been a memorable season.  It's a bit blurry, but so memorable.  After getting engaged, Wes and I have been on a nauseating rollercoaster ride.  Except I hate rollercoasters.  I wish we were on a "hilly path" instead, with gentle inclines, and a few obvious crags to step over. Things on our journey would scream at us with yay's and boo's.  Like the excitement of having financial contribution for the wedding would be a big "yay!"... and then we both lose a job or two, and that's a big "boo."  My emotions haven't found equilibrium.  I think I'm getting stomach ulcers.

Worst of all, as my emotions are heightened, my moods will change and it will affect the communication between Wes and me (aka, we'll get into fights).  The fights usually entail something about miscommunication, or misunderstanding, or faulty expectations, or invalidation.  Shake that mixture well, and pour over the open wounds of our youth-- the scream-inducing reaction is not conducive for gentle speaking tones and prime listening skills.  It becomes a wrestling match of blame and pride and victimization and guilt.  Not to mention it's colosseum style - we fight to the death.

But I was never more aware of Wes' love and fight-diffusion-skills until last week; I can't even remember what we were arguing about (go figure), but I remember these things happened:

1. Wes left me alone to go cry. That in itself was meaningful.  He's realized that instead of figuring things out immediately, solving things on the spot, the space between us allows me to have a level head, and I'm less apt to say hurtful things in heightened emotions.
2. But even if he gave me space, he stayed.  He never left the house, he just waited in another room.
3. It wasn't solely that he gave me space, and that he stayed, but after a length of time, he came back, laid next to me, held me, and let me cry more.  Of course, the bigger response to this would have been for me to come up to him with my tail between my legs and say I was sorry for letting emotional outbursts get the best of me.  But I think the significance of this is that it takes courage to love.  It is an act of courage to move towards someone (especially like myself), so volatile and unpredictable. Indeed, in the middle of fights and arguments, the immediate response is self-preservation, defensiveness, self-justification.  But to say "I care about you enough to move towards you in love, even if you might hurt me" - this is courage.  This is love.

***

"I know you're not mad at me.  You're just in a lot of pain, you never had time to heal, and you're more likely to take it out on me," he said.  I wept even more.  I never mean to hurt him, I told him, I don't like who this wedding has made me be.  I'm more stressed and anxious, more prone to being less of a friend, and more of a spacey a**hole.  But honestly, I swear it's not the wedding.  The wedding just so happens to be the fire, the hot water to extract all the ugliness that's been sitting at my core, waiting for me to be too tired and weary to hide.

Marriage is a stage for two people to act out their deepest dysfunctions.

When we fight, Wes doesn't always approach me that way, but that day he did.  We both knew the pain he was referring to.  We both know that in these outbursts, it's likely that I'm not angry at Wes, I'm angry at my upbringing, I'm angry at people from former failed relationships, I'm ridiculously angry at myself - and I never got my frustrations out.  Those people hurt me, I hurt myself, and I've been looking for vindication and never felt the fullness of forgiveness and freedom.

As much as Wes recognized his best approach in that moment, there were things that I too needed to face.  Courage for Wes looked like approaching a screaming banshee.  And for me, courage for me was to let him love me.  To not wallow in my hurts and become a repetitive victim.  To let him approach me in the places that are vulnerable and frightening.  To admit that I am that hurt person who hurts people.  To allow him to see the open wound, and maybe pour some stinging, though healing salve.  Weird how we allow our wounds to fester because healing itself can also be painful.

I began apologizing him for the way that I am.  Except instead of condemning me, he took my snotty face into his hands and tells me so gently that he already forgave me three years ago when he chose to commit himself to me.  He told me that he came into this knowing my brokenness and ready to be gracious towards it.

Wes isn't the type of person to be full of woo or charm, he says the things he means, and he means it fully and honesty.  I don't say that as a degradation, I say that because that tells me he means every word.  And that's the kind of lie-shattering statement that breaks the cages I keep myself in- that I need to work for grace, that I need to be better, that I need to be perfect before I can be loved.

It's as if I never understood salvation, hey? It's like I never understood it whenever Paul wrote in Romans that when we were still sinners, Christ died for us.  It's like I blocked the verse out of my head because it's such an overplayed verse that we've used in tracts on the Romans Road to Evangelism.  But I am watching God love me through the way the Wes loves me.  And I am feeling loved, by both of them.

We've diffused fights in the past, and I can't tell you what about this particular transaction for an unknown argument was so healing.  Maybe because I let myself be vulnerable.  Maybe because I wasn't denying my pain.  Maybe because Wes moved towards me in compassion and selfless love.  Maybe it was a combination of everything above.  But I can tell you that understanding what courage looks like for yourself- it's the thing that brings out the best of your love and diffuses the worst of fights. It's the thing that rebuilds bridges, that confronts pain, and allows the hurts to heal.

xo

currently reading: You and Me Forever, Francis Chan
currently listening: Without Words: Synesthesia, Bethel Music
currently watching: Gilmore Girls